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Thread: Winter 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

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    Vađarholmr's Avatar Archivum Scriptorium
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    Default Winter 2013 Scriptorium Writing Competition - Short Category Voting Thread

    -Here are the submissions for the Short category. Please vote for your favorite one.

    Also, please bear in mind that anonymity is still required here. Authors of any works below may not declare what submission may be theirs, or in any other way ruin the anonymity of theirs or another member's submission. Those found to be doing so here or anywhere else will be rightly and sneakily punished. The thread is for discussion of the articles at hand and voting, NOTHING ELSE.


    Was - Entry 1

    Was

    The dead thing which was us and had yet never had a life of its own lies on my soul like a brick on the edge of a trampoline. I never saw what we had made and what had left us, I only know that we had it and now we do not. Did it have little hands? I am told it had little hands. I sometimes wish I had held those little hands. Or had been there to see them.

    Like the brick on the trampoline, I do not know it is always there. But sometimes, you jump and an edge hits you or some red dust spirals out of your vision into the sky-blue oblivion of our teasing sky. Writing is cathartic because writing is pain. My heart is painful against my chest if I let myself think of it and think of what might have been and what did not come to pass. But truthfully, to myself, I cannot bow my head and think of only that. Perhaps my sub-conscious will not have me show myself something so horrific.

    A pool of blood? I do not know. A pool of blood and a dead thing dying that never lived. What is life? How should I know and how should anyone know if what happened was a death? Death is so far beyond our comprehension that we can witness it and know nothing more than that for us, that person is gone. Yet it is the same when they leave a room. Did it leave a room? I am sure one day we shall have another thing which will be us, will it be us in the same it would have been? Or will it too end its paltry existence in a pool of blood in a room too bright and too soon for it? Will I not be there?

    A thing which was me lead a half-life, then, and died a half-death. It is uncharitable to think that, a lie, a lie to protect myself from grief when I have felt grief already. I should not shield myself from the world. I am a part of the world and the world is a part of me and a part of that world is the thing which was me and what happened to it. Did its little hands try and flex in that pool of blood? My subconscious cannot let me imagine it. I can imagine an impersonal mutilated human corpse but I cannot imagine that small thing with tiny hands and a half-life leaving this world.

    I do not even know if I am right about the small snapshots I can imagine. I can not imagine the whole imagine. I cannot in my mind fix it like a photograph. I can imagine the hands, the tiny, warm pink hands. I can imagine the blood, spreading thickly and blackly and trickling. I can imagine toes curled in a prehensile way grotesquely reminiscent of the gibbon. I can imagine closed eyes- behind which I do not know. I can imagine a foetal torso curled in the most futile protection of itself. A miniature, a marionette of fate. I cannot imagine it all at once. What does that mean? I am not seeing anything or am I seeing too much?

    I could just google it, such is the wonder of the modern world, but I do not want to. Doubtless someone has put this out for the world to see, or had it done against their will. I do not want to know, truly. Or I could know. I know how it feels. I can talk with her about how it feels and what we do not have. But I cannot talk with her about what actually happened. The incident itself is not what affects us now, perhaps, but is that not because I hide it from myself and do not permit myself to think?

    Making myself do so now, is respect to the thing I have not let myself consider. A pool of blood, a tiny human being as far as I know a miniature of us and the gaping chasm of oblivion. I have read in books of screams and horror and pain. The emotion of it, of loss and what could have been, what maybe should have? Who wills such a thing to happen? Yet, to question why anything like that happens is cruel to oneself. Why cancer? Why this? Why do I not say the words?

    The thing which was us has left us and one day another thing which will be us will be there. And yet I do not think I can say it will make it level. It will not, because a thing which was us was alone, so terribly alone - I was not there - and lay with tiny hands and tiny curled prehensile feet and faded away. There is nothing that can ever do what may have been. Nor does it need to.

    The dead which was us and would have been there lies on me and is part of me. I do not feel better now and I do not understand any more. I do not think I will.



    Bane and Bone - Entry 2

    Bane and Bone

    Man life was tough Baring mused has he poked the dying fire once more, trying to strangle the last remains of heat from it. Of course it was all in vain, the cold was too overpowering to be combated by this measly fire. He needed a bigger one.

    “Oi, Sanders get over ‘ere” he shouted across the make shift camp to his friend, who was nodding off in the corner.

    “What is it Bars?” He groaned in despair, he hated being disturbed – and Baring seemed to disturb him all the time.

    “I need a bigger fire.” Baring replied matter-of-factly.

    “And why on earth do you need me for that?” Sandering replied with a hint of sarcasm.

    “Because you’re a Burner that’s why, never get over before I set Slips on you,” came the blunt reply.

    “Hmph, you think I’m scared of Slips... that Muter has nothing on me,” however Sandering did rise and make his way over to the fire, carefully avoiding the sleeping Slips. Despite what he said Sandering did have a slight fear of Slips, he was a grumpy Muter and that meant trouble to those on his bad side. When he was within reach of the embers Sandering breathed in deeply, searching inside himself for the source, thankfully it had been a while since his last burn so the power came easily enough. Releasing his breath he guided the ray of flames that appeared from his hands into the embers, lighting them up with ease.

    “Ah that’s better,” Baring sighed, letting the heat from the now crackling fire, seep through him. Whilst he concealed it well Baring was rather impressed by Sandering’s abilities as a Burner – someone who could produce and manipulate heat. He himself was a Cooler – someone who could produce and manipulate the cold, a rather useless ability when they were this far north. Much to his disappointment being a Cooler didn’t mean you was immune to the cold, unlike a Burner who had a slight resistant to heat. The final member of their party, Slippington, or Slips for short, was a Muter – someone who rather annoyingly could drain other Blessed’s source, rendering them as useful as a normal human.

    Combined they made quite a potent team, despite the frequent “disagreements” they had, and as such had been sent north to discover and report back on the recent rumours that have been trailing back down south. They were into the 13th day of the their journey, and were a day’s travel away from the last major settlement this side of the Ribs, a large mountain ranger that scared across the north, separating the inhabitable south-end with the inhospitable north-end, where they had sadly been sent.

    Sanders sat down opposite him watching the flames dancing within the fire before looking up, his eyes draining back to their normal colour as the source he summoned delved back deep within him, and staring at Bars, “What d’you think we’ll find up there?”

    Bars just shrugged in reply, lost in his thoughts. He hoped of course nothing would come of this venture, but some part of him wasn’t too sure. Before departing Inglori his mentor, Pariculoes, had taken him aside and mentioned briefly of visions he had seen, a stirring in the north, and Bar could see the fear in his eyes. His mentor was a rare Blessed, a Seering, someone who could glance into the future, not at something of their choice, but a random image presented to them by the source. Some viewed it as a wasted talent, but the more powerful the Seering the more accurate and reliable the visions, and sadly Pariculoes was a very powerful Seering.

    An abrupt snore from Slips snapped him out of this thoughts and he saw Sanders was looking deeply into the fire, blasted Burners couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Stifling a yawn Bar mumbled something about going to sleep before falling back onto his bedroll and closing his eyes with a deep sigh.

    Sanders quickly snapped his attention away from the fire and stared at Bar, waiting until he was sure Bar was asleep. After a few minutes he quietly stood up and walked off into the night, producing a bright flame in his right palm to provide the light he needed. As he walked off the flame caught the evil grin sitting upon his face...


    The Wait - Entry 3

    The Wait;

    I was terrified. Molly seemed fine, cleaning her rifle quietly. In our little ditch, not three hundred yards from the edge of the fort, I looked out. The breach was atleast fifty paces across now, made at the tip of one of the fort’s five bastions. A mountain of rubble. Brunhilda came up from behind me, and I could tell she was scared too, but biting her lip to hide it. Atleast she had the dignity to hide it. I, meanwhile, was shaking like a leaf as I lay against the parapet.
    “Good morning, Mol.” Brunhilda managed taking a seat beside her at the entrance to the post.
    “Morning, Lieutenant. Ready for the assault?” the woman asked, checking a round from her pocket.
    “…Well, no, but I’m sure everything will be fine.”
    No, you weren’t meant to admit that. Darl had taught me that showing fear to the troops displayed a complete lack of strength and nerve. It was why I was here, staring at the breach, shaking. Letting myself be afraid.
    “Fine, Lieutenant?” Molly asked, a slightly surprised look on her face.
    “Well…not fine, as such, but just as likely to go swimmingly, I might say.” the Lieutenant conceded.
    “Swimmingly, ma’am?” the veteran asked, blinking very visibly. Molly is a soldier. Ever since we were kids, she’s always had a brutality to her, backed by savage honesty. She is not one for platitudes.


    “Well…we’ll see, I think, Sergeant.” And she smiled, ending the conversation as politely as possible before silently taking up a prone position beside me. One day, she’d learn to get advice where she could. Or die. Probably die, if we were being honest.
    “General?”
    I kept staring, unable to reconcile the title with myself. It took a gentle shake of my shoulder to stir me, and my tentative control of my bladder slipped for a few seconds…though I was lying on sodden earth, so it wasn’t very noticeable. My eyes must’ve been wide and scared, for she gulped and looked away.
    “The Forlorn Hope is ready, Sir.”
    ****. No excuse to delay now.
    “V-v-very good, Lieutenant.” I took a deep breath and steadied myself, returning my gaze to the breach. Hard to keep my eyes off it. Hard to stop thinking.
    “Are you alright, General?” she asked, a stupid question. Of course I wasn’t alright. Twenty-seven years old, and about to send possibly hundreds of men to their deaths. How did she think I felt? Such a green girl. Molly, naturally, could tell I was pissing myself, I was shaking, but I got all this out before bullets started to fly.
    “I’m-I’m fine, Miss Brunhilda. My only problem being that damned fort over t-t-there.” I explained, chewing on my cigarette like a man before his execution. “In approximately two hours and fifteen minutes, the 9th Brigade will begin their assault. They’ll have heavy artillery support from our biggest guns, but the foe will be ready. There’ll be a rifle line just at the other side of that rubble, probably the Malshesh Guard, and the moment a head peaks up over the top, they’ll open fire.” I looked across at her, and her eyes were wide in hopeless fear. Had she not read the ****ing brief?!...
    Yes, she’d be in amongst them, wouldn’t see? Oh, poor girl. I felt guilty, but I had enough guilt to last a life time. She’d be dead soon, just another corpse sent rattling off in a car to be buried like so many others. I’d seen her kind order ‘bayonets fixed’ in city squares during the Revolution, and then ordered them forward unto glorious death. So many. They blurred after a while.
    In short, I didn’t care. I have never claimed to be a good man.




    “It won’t be pretty. The first lads will die quick, then get trampled by their mates. Artillery shells, from the emplacements on that prong,” I leaned onto my right elbow and pointed over to the second point of the fort, sitting a quarter of a mile to our left. “If we had enough guns, I’d level it, but the second we turned away they’d be sniping at us from that breach. Maybe even lead a sally or two. So we’re going through here, and after the lads get over that lip, the Guard will open up, and the carnage will start. Guts spilling out, heads cracked open, men screaming for their mothers, and sergeants forcing our lads on.” And my eyes focus on her, biting her lip like some juvenile. “You’ll probably see a few of our’s shoot off their rifles, but it’ll be bayonets and blood. Three thousand odd against eight hundred, but the Malshesh, they’re stern, they’re brutal, and they don’t like us.”


    My god, they didn’t.
    “They won’t hold for long, though.” Molly states, quietly.
    “Aye, they’re half-starved, and we caught most of their officers at Nishdaq. Were you there, Lieutenant?”
    Probably.
    “Yes, sir…We were on the left. It was…brutal.”
    “No ****. Anyway, Sergeant Calverston is correct. They’ll run, and then you’ll have a chance, since you’ll have to nick their trench and hold until we can move the 56th up to support you.”
    I breath, very slowly, every inch of me rising up and down against the cold mud, rain pattering on my peak cap like nails on a table. ****, it was cold. ****, I was tired. ****, it stunk.
    “Sergeant, did the wind just change?” I asked.
    “Aye, Sir.” And I grumbled my discontent. Just my luck to pick a post near an old sewage pit.
    “…Do you think we can do it, Sir?”
    That caught me off guard. I remember writing ‘****ing Lt. Brunhilda made me think today’ in my diary afterwards. Thinking is bad for a man like me. Planning is easy, strategizing is simple, but thinking makes me nervous.


    Because my first instinct was to tell her ‘Oh yes, but you’ll probably die’.


    Unending Qualms of the Legendary Bandit King - Entry 4

    Unending Qualms of the Legendary Bandit King:
    The Downfall of the Outlaw Jesse James

    April 2nd, 1882
    St. Joseph, Missouri

    Jesse was perplexed by his own self sorrow, in recent years. The feeling of overwhelming verbosity consumed him, yet no words could come to mind to describe his dispassion, and inner pity. It seemed as though every last vestige of his humanity leaked from his orifices, slowly, but surely, with each passing day. He felt helpless, betrayed, and abandoned. He felt no remorse for his past ‘indiscretions’. He believed ardently in his crusade against the union north, and his fervent disregard for the value of human life, when it attempted to separate him from his goals. Often reciting, in his mind, that acts of a rebellious nature was the path to freedom. But what he has lost is his ability to distinguish between securing a freedom for the south, a fading dream each passing year, or by securing the freedom within him. Internally, he could not decipher the growing complexity of which was the bigger battle. He did not enjoy his celebrity status, as one might. Bandits, outlaws, miscreants, rabble, highwaymen, desperadoes whatever term one preferred, he paid no heed. His own beliefs and unwavering dedication to his own personal convictions would solidify how he felt about his inclinations in life. He never doubted his way, and the path he led the gang, in their fifteen years of banditry. He was proud of his accomplishments, but disappointed by the outcome which closed in on him, as each day he felt he gasped for air a little more.

    With each day’s long yore, passing by indiscriminately, he sat on his front porch, watching his children play in the front yard. He reminisced of his own youth, playing in the front yard with his brother, Frank. He clinched shut his rough hands, then released the grip, and feeling the hard, grated skin, on his tough, red hands, to reassure himself that he was not dreaming. He had made it so far, in this post-civil war hell. For two decades he continued his war on the unionists. He never admitted the south lost the war, or approved of it. His view, the view shared by many post-war confederates, they were not consulted when the rules changed, and therefore they do not need abide by them. Frank had gone off to California, to escape this life of banditry, in hopes for figments of normality, something more, a lawful life, perhaps. It was an idea that Jesse wanted no part of, or so he often convinced himself.

    It began to rain that day and his son, Jesse Edward, and daughter, Mary, came indoors to play marbles. He sat on the porch for hours, despite there being nothing to look really look at, he just observed the elegant, natural beauty that presented itself, almost unchanged, as the days passed. He did not seem to care much for the unchanging, natural atmosphere around him, He would just proceed each day, living life to the fullest, and watching his children grow old.

    He listened to the pitter-patter of the rain on the porch roof. The small raindrops trickled down, mercilessly, from the grayed sky, which created a natural ambiance by colliding with the puddles, creating a soothing melody, one he wouldn't hear, locked away in a cell, garnering wisps of sunlight through a small window. It was the thought of retaining his own relative freedom that made the slow days worth cherishing every moment he had with his children, and his loving wife, Zee. She has stood by his side, despite her incessant admonishment of his continued acts of rebellious banditry.

    Fifteen years most wanted, with a price on his head ten times larger than required to entice the interest of the best of bounty hunters. Despite the constant aches he endured, from a hard life on the run, living much of his life atop a saddle, he felt relatively pleased with his life, although he knew he would never have peace of mind, no satisfaction of sleeping with both eyes closed. He ensured he was never more than an arm’s reach of his pistols.

    He rose from his chair, as the rain tapered off. He walked over to the wooden porch beam, at the front of the porch, and leaned on it, as he lit his tobacco pipe, viewing, from his hilltop home, over the town of St. Joseph, below. A rainbow rose gallantly in the sky, a kaleidoscopic pillar to the heavens. He enjoyed each moment of it, never knowing if it could be his last gaze upon such a magnificent wonder. Moments like that were to be valued, the tranquility of the moment, engaged with the utmost of what thankfulness he could allot, given his unending internal battle, with his own daunting afflictions.

    Zee was cooking supper, as the children continued to play. Charley was in town for the night. Bob was watching Jesse, through the screen door, but it wasn't a sense of awe that incited his curiosity now. His awe had turned to disdainful envy. His idolization of the man had turned to naďve presumptions of entitled equality. His ambitious nature twisted him, overwhelming him with a sense of greed.

    Jesse was no fool. He could see the change in Bob’s once innocent disposition. No longer believing in the outlaw life, a lifestyle he dreamt of since he was a youth. Instead, he cast his hopes on achieving renown fame. He planned to achieve this by whatever dastardly means he saw necessary.

    Jesse walked through the front door, ignoring Bob completely, as he passed by him, and went right into the kitchen where Zee and children had begun preparing for dinner. Bob turned, watching Jesse as he passed by, convinced that the man had unriddled him. He knew what must be done... The next day, Jesse’s constant pain would cease, forever.


    For My Lady - Entry 5

    For My Lady
    Your name is love so sweet and soft,
    Your name is the inscription on my heart,
    I am the earth and your are my rising sun

    Your smile so bright it can light my darkest night,
    Your Eyes so blue the sea is jealous too.
    Let me be the wing blowing through your beautiful hair,
    Let me be the rain landing on your beautiful skin
    Then let me be the sun that warms you after the rain,
    So you can be my wife for eternity.
    Last edited by StealthFox; March 06, 2013 at 09:14 AM.
    {I cook weird stuff}-{Patronised by the fearsome Chloe}
    „[...] ţví ađ međ lögum skal land vort byggja en eigi međ ólögum eyđa.“
    (The Frosta-thing law, 1260)

    Is acher in gaíth innocht,
    fu-fuasna fairggae findfolt:
    ní ágor réimm mora minn
    dond láechraid lainn ua Lothlind.

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